Calamity.

I was so very happy to have the owlets hissing and raising a racket as I walked down each evening. I imagined them testing their flying skills on the newly stacked hay and fledgling across the freshly cut hay field. As this past week commenced I realised serious trouble for the owlets and for some of them, my realisation has come too late.

It was last Monday as I walked down early before work and was excited to see a little form on the nest box porch. As I crept stealthily closer it didn't move and I was virtually under the nest box itself when I realised we had lost one of the owlets. Its partially formed wing was draped over the box edge, quite lifeless. I left it there in the hope that the parents would discard it and I could examine its sorry remains for clues of its demise but in their usual unsentimental way the adults ignored it and it was left to Rob throw it down when he was in the straw stack.

It didn't need an expert to ascertain the cause of death. The owlet was about six weeks old with its wing feathers forming nicely but it was little more than skin and bone. It had undoubtedly starved. I increased the feeding yet the following morning I was greeted by an owlet that had tumbled from the box.It was sitting jauntily upon a lorry body eyeing me warily. I wrapped it in my cardigan and laid it upon its back feeling it immediately relax and this was how I waited for Rob and Sam to fetch the ladder and return it to its roost. As I stood quietly I was startled to feel how thin this youngster was too yet I simply couldn't understand why. The weather had been reasonably settled and I hadn't noticed the adults hunting by day which would indicate that they were struggling. We left the kestrel's breakfast in the box with this youngster and I considered the possibility that we may have lost one of the adult birds. This would undoubtedly lead to difficult times and I watched them ever more closely after dark whilst still keeping my distance.

 These events alone would have been a sorry state of affairs yet things were compounded further on the Thursday. Whilst leaving food as close to the box as we dare Sam noticed feathers at the front of the box. A quick photo told us that another owlet had perished. It was probably too old to be the tumbled owlet but as with the first casualty this one was well formed with an almost full set of wing feathers. Once again, it seemed that starvation was the most likely cause.

I racked my brains and asked around for advice. Last year had been a bumper year for barn owls due to the glut of field voles. A year such as this is always followed by a slump in vole numbers. Events began to make sense. My dog spent the whole of last summer pouncing upon voles in the grass field but this year he hasn't done this at all. My cats have not returned home with that obligatory gift of a juicy fat vole for me. It would seem that the owls aren't hunting as there is very little to catch. I considered the weather and another owl enthusiast pointed to the exceptionally dry conditions. Vole eat green shoots and with no rain whatsoever during April and May there were no green shoots to sustain the few voles we had. They wouldn't breed in such conditions.

I was beyond cross with myself for not realising sooner. The hissing and hubbub that I had witnessed and the bravery of the owlets was simply because they were starving. I had a freezer full of food and had I realised I could have left more. Hindsight is a wonderful thing but sadly it is too late for these owlets. I now walk down each evening in enormous trepidation anticipating silence where once there was new life. As yet there appear to be two still alive that hiss urgently. The other positive news is that there still appear to be two adults flying in to feed them. I hope we can save them yet.

But it is not all sadness. The little owls have fledged and I catch sight of their tiny barrelled bodies ricocheting through the air each evening. The kestrel chicks are also on the cusp of fledging and I see at least three of these chittering excitedly as dad flies in with breakfast to their nest box home. Finally, with the summer solstice, the owl that flies in from the north can clearly be seen going to and fro as it collects its share of the cache. Without these other hungry raptors it is true to say my owlets may still be alive but I cannot dictate where the food will go.Although I am immensely sorry and guilt ridden that their little lives were cut short I can only look put this down to bitter experience and look for the positives. With the lockdown easing Paddy will come soon to check the nest box. I hope by then I have happier news to report to you.

Still learning.

 I woke up to rain this morning and as I write this, the rain is hammering down on the roof once more. I am not complaining as the farmers desperately needed this. One of the things the lockdown will be remembered for is the clear blue skies that helped to lift our spirits. It almost felt as if nature was showing us how beautiful she could be when our lives were stripped bare.

The owls benefited from this sustained dry spell which took us through April and May. During April I barely saw an owl but continued to dutifully deliver the food which I knew they would need with females sitting so early in the season . The vole population hadn't built up sufficiently to provide for so many mouths and as my feeding had lulled them into sitting so soon I had an obligation to help them. As May arrived I began to hear that soothing familiar hiss of the barn owlets calling for food and the parents became more noticeable once more despite the settled weather.

This incessant rain is not welcomed by the owls. As their owlets grow and become more demanding they have suddenly found it impossible to hunt. I sense their urgency as I walk down. I feel ambiguous about seeing them flying so bravely. It is thrilling to watch them so brazen, circling me as I walk and flying alongside me but I know it is simply out of necessity and that concerns me.

Last night I chose to wait and watch them. All of the adults wait for me by the house but there is a kestrel here too. It flies in first, much to the owls disdain. It has the audacity to sit over the food choosing carefully but they are too impatient and fly in sending him upwards and away. Most of the adults fly back to their tree perches and I assume they eat my offerings whilst I drop food at the other three feeding stations. One, however flies over to the sheds and I run back in that direction hoping to see which nest box it takes the food to. I am far too slow and it is in and away again before I arrive in this quarter.

The oldest owlets are delightful. They must be about five weeks old. I know because they come right out of the nest box when I whistle and peer precariously over the edge of the nest box to look at me. It is beginning to rain yet still they jostle to take a peep at me. The hissing reaches a crescendo and I realise that for their safety I need to walk as quietly and unobtrusively to their nest box so as not to cause any of them to fall. Yet still I delight at their fluffy little hair styles and those large obsidian eyes staring directly at me.

The little owls, meanwhile have fledged. The adults make such a fuss that I can tell exactly where their babies are by their increased vocalisations. One of the adults watches me with that indignant look upon its face from the shed roof struts. It looks as if the wind has changed whilst it was having grumpy thoughts and this is now its default mode. I worry for the youngsters with so much activity from the other raptors but there is little I can do but hope they stay safe.

Over by the grain store there is an area in the shadows. I settle down to watch, hidden in the darkness. If I had momentarily forgotten how silent barn owls are in flight I was to have it beautifully illustrated to me. Within a couple of minutes the first owl glided in so very close to me that its wing tip nearly brushed my cheek. It was accompanied by another owl further away but they weren't a pair. The second bird landed deftly upon the platform and flew straight back out of the farm. It too had owlets but not here. The other owl busied itself. I watched in fascination as it took a chick from the platform beneath its box, flew to the shed to rearrange its grip and then straight back up to the box. It did this four times in quick succession. The noise from the box was immense, akin to something from a horror movie. The screeching intensified and they scuffled and squabbled over the food. Talons scraped across the box floor making them sound demonic. It was hard to imagine that such almost supernatural noises were coming from those endearing bundles of fluff.

I had waited specifically to find out a little more about the shed pair. I still rarely see the adult birds taking food in and cannot help but wonder if this brood has failed. Perhaps this pair are more competent hunters and as such less reliant upon me but I would have expected more activity. As I stood silently the female returned. She sat on her door gap and peered below at the food. Meanwhile the adult that had been feeding the hungry owlets continued to collect food, and alighted just below her. I watched in admiration as these two birds sat quite companionably close to each other. I have seen their territorial side and it is quite terrifying yet here they sat together, bound by the common cause of providing for their families. As they both flew off to their nest sites I took my leave, happy to learn something new about these formidable birds.

On a small family farm in Fenland.

I leave my house and set off along the single track road that links my house to our family farm in the heart of The Fens. Its nearly eight years now since I first began walking out each evening, always at dusk, intent and purposeful. I whistle the same familiar two notes and pan the torch ahead of me. Invariably an barn owl, sometimes two, fly to my bidding, circling close before flying back to the farm yard to wait impatiently for me to arrive. No matter how often it happens, that acknowledgement thrills me to the pit of my stomach. They know that I will feed them as soon as I catch up with them.

The Fens are a stronghold for barn owls. the dykes and ditches that stitch this unique landscape together make perfect wildlife corridors for them to hunt over. The lack of busy main roads safeguard them against one of their biggest enemies; traffic. There are also people such as myself who are delighted to find themselves living alongside these magnificent birds and whilst few people feed the owls that live within close proximity to them, many provide nest boxes and hunting grounds for them. Fenland folk are fortunate to regularly see a barn owl quartering its territory both by dusk and dawn in their travels across this unusual landscape.

 In June I run my errand well after 10 pm and still the vast horizon sports the most brilliant of colours. Blue fades to turquoise then white before hues of yellow ochre and finally scarlet paint these skies. It is my favourite time of year for owl feeding when conditions are mild and hospitable and the owls are particularly keen to see me. Their urgency is palpable because June is the month for owlets.

I feed at four places across the farm. It gives them a little space as barn owls can be territorial. Since I began feeding them however, we now have two pairs that nest side by side, plus kestrels in a third nest box and little owls between them all in a hole in the straw. As I reach the first feeding platform I pan the torch again and see with satisfaction that the owls are assembled. One is perched high above me in the ash tree whilst a pair sit companionably together in the nearby walnut tree. As I leave they need little bidding and fly straight in. With wings held upwards and talons outstretched they grab at the food and within a split second are gone upwards and away into the darkness.

I rarely pause but continue onward across the farm, past the open sheds that provide dry hunting opportunities throughout the winter and past the zinc shed which one pair of owls have commissioned for themselves. It has a door that has dropped on its hinges to offer a perfectly sized entrance and exit for an owl and as it is rarely used by us, they favour this nest site. I leave food just outside on another makeshift platform before continuing to the dutch barn. Here we have two more nest boxes and I listen with huge satisfaction at the soft, insistent hissing of the owlets inside the first box. They are used to my whistling and know that it signals the arrival of supper. Their excitement is tangible. The cacophony of noise that grows louder every evening tells me this is a thriving brood. I eagerly anticipate the days in the not too distant future when these owlets will be flying to greet me too. It is marvellous to stand and watch as the farm becomes awash with these elegant beauties.

Feeling satisfied that all is well I continue on  to the furthermost end of the dutch barn. This final platform is underneath the box used by the kestrels. They too fly by night. Only last week one flew past so close I could have reached out and touched it. The little owls take food from here too and one sits in the trees along the dyke side totally unperturbed by me  and glaring indignantly, a little pepper pot of fury yet so incredibly endearing.

My job is done yet the spectacle is by no means over. As I walk back to exit the yard, an adult flies up to the unruly barn owlets with food and I hear their noisy clamouring. The adult totally disregards me and flies over to the shed for more food. I play my part in the charade and continue walking,not wanting to intrude for the farm belongs to them after darkness has fallen. At the gate I pause and watch the shed intently. Sure enough an adult bird appears on the door frame and surveys the area taking her time, weighing up the situation. Only when she is satisfied all is safe does she alight upon the platform just below her and choose her supper. She takes it straight back into the shed. Her owlets are younger. I know this as she has only just reappeared from brooding the eggs. Soon I hope there will be hissing from this box too.

There is one bird left I haven't seen. I am a little early and so I wait patiently by the farm gate for it to arrive. Every summer we are visited by another owl.It must surely be a youngster from a previous year that knows about my evening offerings and that now has hungry youngsters of its own to sustain. Perhaps it enjoys the challenge but every evening it bravely flies against the sunset and into the yard. Without delay, it swiftly snatches up its share of the bounty before flying directly, low and keen in the direction from which it came. Our farm owls are incensed by its presence and show their territorial instincts with blood curdling screeches. I admire its courage and secretly wish it well.

Its time to leave, to walk the way I came and I smile as I go. I have no idea how long I will continue to do what I do but I know that I am extremely privileged to be able to observe this spectacle each evening, on a small, family farm in Fenland.

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